


Digging for Truth

by hightechzombie



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 11:22:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4389920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hightechzombie/pseuds/hightechzombie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Megatron rereads his manifesto, trying to understand where it all went wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Digging for Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the trial in the IDW G1 universe.

He’d been rereading his manifesto. There was not much point in it. Megatron let his gaze slide along the lines, not as much reading as remembering the words.

As said before, there was no point in it. The manifesto was ingrained so deep, that Megatron would have not been surprised that if stripped from his armour, he would find familiar words carved into his protoform. It was the basis of his last four millions years of life, an irrefutable part of himself.

Megatron read the words and did not understand. Devoid of meaning and context, his manifesto was staring back at without any answers to give. Where did you go wrong, Megatron? The past stayed silent.

Sometimes it felt like the manifesto had been laid in him from his very birth. Uncoagulated and soft, like iron that needed shaping, the thoughts had swirled around his mind and made him feel uneasy. Megatron felt like something was throbbing inside him, something that needed to be dug free, rescued and understood.

The work of a miner was tedious and hard. The bad energon and constant darkness imbued life with a futility that was hard to shake, even when you came back to light-filled surface. While the drill shook in his hands, Megatron was plagued by thoughts, thoughts about the Cybertronian society and his place in it. It was a trickle of doubt that always occupied his mind, even as he focused on job.

Life always teaches you lessons, even if one does not at first notice them. Over the course of the first cycles, Megatron had gradually learned the signs that pointed towards good energon deposits, discovered signs that helped predict where the vein would dive and what the weak spots his drill could exploit most efficiently. All the tricks of trade that only experience could teach.

Writing was much like mining. One pursues the promising line of thought and digs it free. Much like mining, it was tedious, hard and depressing. Impactor had laughed at the time that poetry was no good as a miner’s hobby, that the sweet words would shrink in their vulgar mouths and their rough hands would snap any pen in two.

Impactor never understood the nature of writing. One descends into their own mind and begins digging deeper and deeper. Megatron felt drained and exhausted, mentally and emotionally, after every writing session. Day after day, Megatron found his words inadequate. There were deposits of truth somewhere, but they slipped through his fingers. It made him despair. It needed to be told… but Megatron did not feel like the right Cybertronian for the job.

The first draft was abyssal, for reasons Megatron did at the time not understand. It took more time, he needed to see more crimes committed by the regime, for Megatron to finally see his texts with new eyes.

Megatron had one day returned from the protests and almost snapped his data pad in anger upon rereading the draft. His words were docile and placative, begging for changes and appealing to the logic and compassion of the Primes. He had erased it all, his spark burning hot with fury, and began anew. The authorities fully understood what they were doing, their cruelty was deliberate and calculated. Megatron’s words were wasted on them. It had taken far too much time for this lesson to sink in.

The second draft was different. This time, Megatron was writing not to be read by the Senate or the Primes, but by his own kind. Cybertronians like him, those that were blind and cursed by their alt-mode, the people that felt that something was wrong, but never understood why. The people only needed a push, only needed to see their own doubts and unease put in words. Then, everything would suddenly made sense just as it did for Megatron. Certainly, there were others, who would read the manifesto and feel their eyes open at the injustice of Cybertron. The people would feel the anger spark a flame inside them, then their righteousness would transform into a blazing fire that could finally change the world.

There would be other drafts. _Peace_ , had written Megatron at first. Peaceful changes, for how else one can one avoid repeating the mistakes of one’s enemies? It changed to _Peace through Tyranny_ , as the world beat some sense into Megatron’s thick stubborn head and proved that pacifism was impossible.

Megatron put the data pad on the floor. The sound of it made Ravage’s tail twitch, but the cassette did not open his eyes. Megatron laid down on his berth, eyes open and thinking.

Many things changed about Megatron in the last million years, but two things never did: His pride and his fury. Both were necessary to trigger the revolution and to do what was necessary. The war raged on and Megatron held on to the things that made him strong.

The war was lost. Megatron had failed, and now he found it was impossible relinquish either qualities.

The truth was, that even knowing that he had committed wrong, even knowing that he had to change, Megatron felt that it was impossible not to be proud of what he had done. The revolution was necessary. Tearing down the Senate, destroying the system, annihilating the organics to beat them to the first step...

Megatron felt no guilt about it. The pride forbade it, because otherwise… nothing would make sense. His accomplishments made Megatron whom he was.

And who was Megatron? A monster. Was this not the very thing that Megatron was trying to change?

His hatred was fighting his pride and there were no victors here. Megatron felt regret and guilt pressing down on him like a mountain. But if ever pointed towards crime - the slaughter in the Hexanian cluster, the forming of the K-squad, the actions of the DJD -, something inside Megatron bared its teeth and refused to admit any wrong. Necessary, said the pride, it was all necessary to win the war. Anyone who says otherwise was not there and did not understand the stakes.

“The war is over… and, thankfully, we have lost”, those were there words that Optimus put inside Megatron’s mouth. At first it tasted like poison. Megatron was subjected to his rival’s punishment and was forced to endure humiliation before the entire world. Now, Megatron saw a glimpse of truth in what had been said. Was there anything that Megatron would have _not_ sacrificed for his final “victory”?

The world was much emptier after Megatron was done with it. There was no denying it. As for what Megatron had created…

Megatron sighed and turned to his side to pick up the data pad. Once more, he began scanning the words for something he missed.

Where did it all go wrong? Was there a hidden fault in his thinking, a bad cog that slowly grinded his ideals into dust? Was it flawed from the start and slowly blossomed into monstrous mistakes and galaxy-sized horrors?

Or was it pure? Was the manifesto the remnant of the Megatron of Tarn that once deserved to be a leader? The Megatron that saved countless Cybertronians from oppression, slavery and death?

Did Megatron need to return to the start and become what he once was… or was he forever this… flawed, shambling beast that only destroyed what it wanted to save?

Megatron read the lines and found no fault within the argumentation, saw no harm in the idealistic optimism and felt no evil in the righteousness of his old anger. The manifesto never changed. But Megatron felt unease creep up on him, as if something was moving in the corner of his eye. What was missing..?

It was the blank spaces that disturbed him. Megatron found the lost link, remembered what was lacking.

Between the lines was written: “Kill him. I have no more use of him.” Between the paragraphs another message: “Leave no survivors.” The unwritten cruelty had leaked between the pages, unnoticed and undocumented.

When did cruelty cross the line from “necessity” to “pleasure”? Megatron could not remember.

Megatron closed his eyes and let the data pod drop from his hand. There was no joy in truth. It was the same bitter chant “You monster, monster, monster.” It all came down to the fact that Megatron could not remember who he was, and had no idea where to go.

He hated this. The late night torture that kept repeating every cycle. Was there no end to this trite and useless musings?

The berth creaked when Megatron sat up and picked up the data pad again. Ravage didn’t twitch.

With a tired grunt, Megatron closed the manifesto and opened a new, clean slate. He had no idea what to write. Even worse, Megatron knew that the words would come out false and insincere. The first drafts are always abyssal. That’s just the deal with writing.

One always starts in complete despair and darkness... and then starts digging.


End file.
